


Where There Is Peace

by sternel



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-19
Updated: 2007-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:23:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1641287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternel/pseuds/sternel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There only word that came for a long time was that there was no word, that cities were falling and shells flying, lines that moved back and forth through places with strange names.  Even after all their travels, Leslie found the sight of names like Ypres and Armiens almost thrilling  and then she would remember everything that was happening, and the thrill would vanish and the worry return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where There Is Peace

**Author's Note:**

> While refreshing my memory in order to figure out just what on earth to do for this prompt, I came across a note that "Rilla of Ingleside" is the only novel to deal with women on the Canadian homefront during World War I. That tidbit dug deep into my head and wouldn't leave, and I found myself wondering what some of the homefront was like for those not in Glen St. Mary. From that, this story was born.  
> The poem fragment at the end is by a gentleman named Austin Dobson, and was published in 1918, in a book of poetry inspired by the war.  
> As always, thanks to J. for beating my commas into good behavior, and making everything I do a little better.
> 
> Written for Clio

 

 

_Toronto, 1915_

The day Kenneth's unit was mustered, it was hot, in late summer, and Leslie stood on the  
platform watching as the train pulled away, held up by Persis's arm around her waist and  
Owen's tall figure behind her. The train rounded a curve and at last even the little light  
on the caboose disappeared, leaving empty rails and a silent crowd of families: stern  
fathers and weeping mothers, sisters and sweethearts, slowly making their way from the  
station.

The Fords were all silent as they wound their way home; Leslie could scarcely stand to  
see shopkeepers and streetcars moving along as if nothing had changed -- her son, her  
only son, was at that very moment on his way to fight in the worst war ever to be  
known, and here was the greengrocer offering a bargain on carrots. She closed the door  
firmly behind them and turned to ask Owen something -- but he was already heading up  
the stairs to his writing room, and in a moment was gone from sight.

_My dear Anne,_

We've just bid farewell to Kenneth, and I know you'll understand when I say that it was  
the most difficult thing I have ever done as a mother. How do you bear up underneath  
the uncertainty?

She got used to it, as she always did, when he started writing; the distant looks and the  
sudden scratching on any available surface -- paper, napkins, his hand. But he spent  
more and more time in his writing room and it was difficult for her to be so alone. She  
wrote endless letters, to Kenneth, and to Anne, back on the Island, and spent more and  
more time at the Red Cross office tearing bandages.

There were never enough bandages. She tried not to think about what they'd be used for.  
Every day, more cloth to rip, and she stopped watching the calendar and counting the  
days. Owen came home with reams of paper, but he never showed her anything he'd  
composed. That too she silently added to her list of wonders and worries.

At the Red Cross office one day, someone stood and called for everyone's attention.  
"We've got a poem here by one of our own boys! Listen, ladies, you must hear this."  
And she read out a heartbreakingly perfect poem that Leslie thrilled to hear. She could  
imagine the piper marching; it seemed almost as if she knew the hills he trod.

"Catherine," she asked as the woman sat back down. "Where did you find that?"

"It was in the newspaper," Catherine said. "It was written by a young man in the  
trenches, and his commander found it and sent it. Doesn't it make you proud, what we  
Canadians can do?" She took out the newspaper and looked it over again. "He's from  
Prince Edward Island. Private Walter Blythe."

Leslie's heart leapt, and she reached for the newspaper. "Oh, may I? I know him. I  
know him! This is my dear friend's son. I used to read him stories when he was a baby."  
She took the clipping with trembling hands. Walter was on the front, and so was  
Kenneth, and this was as close as she could be. "Oh, well done, Walter."

She copied the poem over, on a borrowed piece of stationary, and brought it home to read  
to Owen over dinner. "Aren't you proud?" she asked quietly, after she'd finished reading.

Owen reached for it and read it again, silently. "It's very good," he finally said. "I  
always thought Walter had talent in him." Dropping the paper on the table, he pushed  
back in his chair and disappeared up the stairs, leaving Leslie to stare after him in  
surprise.

_My dear Anne,_

Just a quick note to tell you Owen and I have seen Walter's poem, and it's made us both  
so very proud of him. I'm praying for him and Jem, and I know you'll keep Kenneth in  
your prayers too.

With all our love, Leslie.

Owen didn't mention the poem again, and Leslie didn't bring it up, but she kept her  
handwritten copy and reread it until the folds in the page split and the letters began to  
wear away. The ladies at the Red Cross had posted a copy on the wall and she paused  
whenever she passed it, thinking of Kenneth, and Walter and Jem and the Meredith boy,  
wondering what Glen St. Mary was like with all the emptiness. After the list of deceased  
soldiers that contained Walter's name was posted next to the poem on the Red Cross wall,  
she began sitting with her back to it, trying to forget it was there.

_Dearest Anne,_

I have seen the news about your loss and it's broken my heart. I live in daily fear of such  
news, and I can't even begin to imagine how your heart feels at this moment. I haven't  
any words, only sorrow, and I am thinking of you at every moment. Please know that  
Walter's memory will live on in his beautiful poem, and I will always think of him  
whenever I hear it or read it --

"He's not really gone, then?" Owen asked, leaning over her shoulder, causing her to  
blotch her ink. Scrambling for her blotter, she ignored him until the splots were safely  
dealt with.

"No. How could he be? He's written something immortal." Leslie turned to look at  
him. Owen had scarcely said two words since she'd told him of Walter's death; he'd  
barely even asked after his own son.

"Immortal." Sitting heavily on the sofa, Owen stared down at the floor. "I can't write,  
Leslie."

Leslie put her pen down, turning to face him. "I don't understand."

"I can't write," he repeated, a trifle impatiently. "I've tried, but the words won't come.  
And then I read Walter's poem, and I finally understood why -- I'm not there, and I can't  
write about it because I can't understand it! This is a great and horrible thing, Leslie, and  
it must be written about so people can understand, but -- I can't do it. I'm not the one to  
do it. Little Walter Blythe, who used to be scared of his own shadow, is the only one  
who can, and now he's died, and I can't even find words to eulogize him!" He dropped  
his head into his hands.

Leslie carefully slid next to him on the sofa, hesitantly touching his arm. "Owen, this has  
happened before. You'll find the words again."

"Please never tell Anne I was jealous of her son," Owen said, voice soft. "She has always  
been so kind to me and I've repaid her with a deadly sin."

"You haven't," Leslie said staunchly. "You haven't, you weren't the one who took Walter  
away, or even started this wretched war." She leans closer. "You must try to write  
again."

"The only words I can think of are Walter's." Owen shook his head. "It's useless.  
Useless. He'll live forever in his words, and he's done something to earn that privilege.  
My work brings other people to life, but when it's really important, when it really matters  
\-- I lose it all." He stood, abruptly, forcing Leslie backwards as so to not lose her  
balance. "I'll be upstairs."

"Owen," Leslie said helplessly.

"I'll try, and once again there will be no words to find!" Owen said over his shoulder, on  
his way up the stairs. "They've disappeared, and I don't know how to get them back!"

Leslie watched him go, no words of her own to offer him, and bowed her head against the  
tears.

There only word that came for a long time was that there was no word, that cities were  
falling and shells flying, lines that moved back and forth through places with strange  
names. Even after all their travels, Leslie found the sight of names like Ypres and  
Armiens almost thrilling - and then she would remember everything that was happening,  
and the thrill would vanish and the worry return.

There was little from Kenneth, just brief letters that arrived stained with dirt and  
crumpled. She was sure he was keeping the worst of it from them and she ached for her  
son, but she counted herself lucky when she received the note from Anne telling her that  
little Jem had gone missing.

Owen didn't speak when she told him of Jem, while they were eating that evening.

"Have we heard from Kenneth?" he finally asked, and Leslie had to shake her head.

"Nothing for a week."

Owen bowed his head over his dinner and fell silent, leaving Leslie alone with her  
thoughts.

They waited, in that fashion, for any news, for days that stretched into weeks, weeks into  
months. At last came signs of things that could almost signal hope: the German lines  
were battered into submission and the word `peace' was finally heard, as tales of bravery  
spread across the city. But Leslie was afraid to hope - unsure what even to hope for:  
Kenneth's return, news of Jem, a sign of anything from Owen.

Good news did come, slowly: Jem was safe, Kenneth sent word, and suddenly the  
Armistice was declared. "Now," thought Leslie, "surely everything will start to be all  
right again." But it continued, waiting and hoping, watching Owen disappear each day  
into his writing room and emerge dissatisfied, wondering when she would ever see  
Kenneth again.

When he came, she barely recognized him, somehow taller and leaner, a strange scar on  
his cheek, but when he smiled, and cried out "Mother!" and ran to her, she knew that her  
Kenneth had finally come home. She couldn't help but cry, touching his cheek, and  
Owen came out to see what the disturbance was, dropping his pen onto the floor and  
sending ink flying.

"I have to go to Ingleside," Kenneth explained, over dinner, after he'd temporarily  
exhausted his narrative. "I have to go see - about something." Owen looked confused,  
but Leslie, after a moment, understood.

"Who is it, Kenneth?" she asked him, marveling at how he'd grown.

"Rilla Blythe," Kenneth admitted and, surprisingly, blushed, the scar on his cheek  
standing out white.

"Rilla Blythe," Owen repeated, in a surprised voice, and stared at him for a moment,  
before finally pushing back from the table and disappearing up the stairs.

Kenneth looked on in confusion, but Leslie just sighed in relief. "At last," she said softly,  
and turned to her son. "Rilla Blythe. Tell me, all about it."

_This let us pray for, this implore:_  
That all base dreams thrust out at door,  
We may in loftier aims excel  
And, like men waking from a spell,  
Grow stronger, nobler, than before,  
When there is Peace.

 

 

 


End file.
